Rosemary and Rue: An October Daye Novel

by Seanan McGuire

  “Hush,” he said again, going back to work. First the cream; then the sharp bite of the needle, and the feeling of thread pulling flesh back together. “Is being the one to find Evening’s killer really worth all this, Toby?”

  “She was your friend, too.”

  “She was a noble. Isn’t that what we have a queen for?” A hint of bitterness crept into his tone as he tied off the last of the stitches. “Let the nobility take care of their own, and get your ass out of the line of fire.”

  “Not an option.”

  He sighed. “You always were a stubborn little fool.”

  Lifting my head, I twisted around and smiled at him. “I learned from the best.”

  “I suppose you did,” he said, reaching out to cup my chin in the palm of his hand. “I wasn’t a very good teacher.”

  “You were good enough,” I said. He moved to let me push myself upright, hand still cupping my chin. “I’m still alive, aren’t I?”

  “Yes, but at this rate, for how long?” Devin was kneeling, the first aid kit still open beside him. “I want you out of this.”

  “That’s not an option,” I said softly.

  It wasn’t often that I got the chance to see Devin outside the carefully constructed confines of his office. His hair was mussed, hanging to half cover one eye. I reached out to brush it aside, and he caught my hand, expression grim.

  “Don’t make me beg, Toby. Please. Walk away from this. Let the Queen’s Court deal with it.” He squeezed my hand. “You just came back to me. I’m not ready to let you go again.”

  “I never said…”

  “You didn’t have to. You came Home.” Hand still cupping my chin, Devin leaned forward and kissed me.

  I worked for Devin for years; he’d had his hands over every inch of my body for reasons both sexual and practical, from pulling my clothes off to bandaging a wound. In all those years, he’d never kissed me with so much urgency or such a feeling of need. I found myself responding despite my injuries, first returning the kiss, then sliding down off the couch to kneel beside him. His stitches were good. They didn’t even pull as I knelt.

  Devin was the one to break away, releasing the hand he was holding as he said, “I need to look at your shoulder.”

  “Wow,” I said, dizzy now for reasons that had nothing to do with blood loss. “Way to kill the mood.”

  He smirked. “No, darling. The amount of blood you’ve decided to accessorize with could do that quite admirably without my help.”

  I glanced down at myself as I slid back onto the couch. The robe I’d borrowed from Lily wasn’t pink anymore. Dried blood had turned it a mottled shade of brown, with a brighter streak of red over my left shoulder where exertion had reopened the gunshot wound.

  “I need a shower,” I said.

  “We’ll get to that in a minute,” Devin said, reaching up to peel away my robe.

  Lily’s carefully constructed poultice had pulled away during the fight and was dangling loose against my collarbone. Devin tugged the last of the bindings away, dropping the whole bundle onto the floor. “She does good work,” he admitted, almost grudgingly. “It looks like she even managed to wash most of the iron out before it could really work its way into your body. That probably explains why you’re still conscious.”

  “You really are a happy little ray of sunshine today, aren’t you?” I was looking at the exit wound, and the visible damage still looked about half as bad as my thigh, despite having been made with the same caliber bullet. “Does it need stitches?”

  “To be on the safe side? Yes.” Devin picked up the cloth he’d used to clean the blood off my leg. “I don’t think I need to worry about disinfecting this.” More quietly, he added, “It’s going to scar, you know.”

  “Iron always does.” I watched him wash the blood away, considering the severity of the damage. Lily really did an amazing job. My arm wouldn’t be up to my normal standards for a while—probably several weeks, if ever—but it wouldn’t be useless, as long as I could take things easy.

  As if that’s ever been an option.

  Devin closed the front with three stitches, and the back with only two. “There.” He returned the needle and surgical thread to the first aid kit before standing, offering me his hands. I raised my eyebrows, and he nodded toward the bathroom. “Didn’t you want a shower?”

  “Yes,” I admitted. “But I’m a little naked here.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Isn’t that the best state in which to take a shower? Nudity is, I believe, a prerequisite.”

  “If you insist.” Taking his hands, I let him pull me off the couch. I stumbled slightly as I put my weight on my injured leg, relieved when it didn’t buckle. I probably couldn’t run, but I could walk, at least for now. Depending on the infection, well, we’d see how long that lasted.

  Devin didn’t comment on the way I leaned on him as we walked to the bathroom. I appreciated that, almost as much as I appreciated his steadying arm around my waist. “You still like your showers hot, don’t you?” he asked, letting go at the bathroom door.

  “The hotter, the better,” I said, before the mirror caught my attention. “Oh.”

  “Yes,” said Devin grimly. Sitting down on the edge of the tub, he turned on the taps. Hot steam began to fill the room. “You see why I was a trifle concerned.”

  “Uh, yeah. I do.” Muck had plastered my hair almost flat against my head, and there was a distinct gray undertone to my complexion. I’ve seen corpses that looked like they had more life left in them. Considering the way I looked, I shouldn’t have been doing anything but calling Danny and requesting a ride to the nearest emergency room—do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars.

  “You look better than you did.”

  “This is better?”

  Devin looked up, saying simply, “Yes.”

  That was a sobering thought. I was still standing there contemplating it, when he walked over, put his hands around my waist, and lifted me off the floor. “Hey!” I protested.

  “Shower now,” he said. “And then, I’ll put you to bed with a nice hot drink to make you feel better.”

  “Is that all you’ll put me to bed with?” I asked.

  Devin smiled and lowered me into the bathtub.

  Hot water on fresh wounds may be medicinally helpful, but it hurts like hell. I gasped as the spray from the showerhead hit me, fighting the urge to scream. Devin watched, holding the shower curtain open, before he asked, “Will you be all right?”

  Iron poisoning, two gunshot wounds, and he was asking if I’d be all right? I forced a smile, reaching for the curtain. “If I can’t take a shower by myself, you can go ahead and bury me,” I said, and pulled it closed.

  He laughed, saying, “Have it your way,” as he left the bathroom. I waited for the sound of the door closing, and turned myself to the serious business of getting clean.

  You never realize how wonderful it is to be clean until you’ve been dirty for days. I stayed in the shower for almost half an hour, glorying in the hot water and the fact that no one was trying to kill me. When the water started to cool I turned it off, wringing as much as I could out of my hair before grabbing a towel off the rack and stepping gingerly out of the stall.

  Devin was waiting for me in the hall. He pressed a mug of thick yellow liquid into my hands. “Drink this.”

  I sniffed. It was warm and smelled like gingerbread. “This is… ?”

  “Good for you.”

  “Right,” I said, and sipped. It was bitter. I grimaced. “How good for me are we talking? Because this tastes—”

  “Good enough.”

  “Right,” I repeated. Devin watched intently as I finished the mug.

  When I was done, he took it away from me, setting it on the hallway table. “There’s another cup in your coffeepot,” he said. “Drink it in the morning. You’ll feel better.”

  “Promise?” I asked, with a small smile.

  Devin put his arms aroun
d my waist again, nearly dislodging my towel. “Would I lie to you?” he asked, bending toward me.

  “All the time,” I said, and leaned in to meet him.

  His first kiss was careful, all too aware of my recent injuries. I pressed closer, putting my arms around his neck, lacing my fingers into his hair. That seemed to be the signal he’d been waiting for; his second kiss was more assertive, more the Devin I knew, the one who took my virginity on the roof of Home, with the fog blocking out everything else in the world.

  When my bad leg buckled, he picked me up and carried me into the bedroom, kissing me all the way.

  We left the towel behind.

  EIGHTEEN

  DEVIN’S VOICE IN MY EAR, as I was drifting toward a safe, comfortable slumber: “Let this go, October. Just… just let her go.”

  “I can’t,” I mumbled.

  He sighed. The bedsprings creaked as he stood. “My kids will be here in the morning,” he said, and that was the last thing I knew before the sun slanting through my bedroom window hit my face and brought me slowly back to consciousness.

  I peeled my eyes open, staring at the ceiling. Not dead. That was a start. The inside of my mouth tasted terrible, and my head felt like it had been the ball in the all-Summerlands soccer finals. Adding this to the pain in my shoulder and thigh, I figured I should just stay asleep until sometime in, say, March. I’d already managed to sleep through dawn, thus proving that iron poisoning and blood loss are the best knockout drugs known to man.

  At least I wasn’t bleeding, thanks to Devin and Lily. If I could get through a few hours without someone deciding the world would be a better place without me in it, I might actually start feeling like a normal person again.

  Levering myself into a sitting position, I fumbled for my robe on the bedroom floor, and frowned as I realized the cats weren’t demanding to be fed. “That’s weird.” Cagney and Lacey always demanded breakfast when they saw signs that I might be awake. “Girls?”

  There was no reply.

  Frowning, I pulled on my robe and left the room, scanning for signs of my feline roommates. “Girls? Kitty-kitty? Hey, not funny, you two…” They still didn’t answer. At least my leg was holding up my weight without much of a complaint.

  Devin was gone, as I’d expected; he hadn’t even bothered to leave a note. Only the mug on my hallway table, sides caked with thick yellow gunk, proved that he’d actually been there. I picked it up and paused, throat tightening. The light on my answering machine was blinking.

  “Please, not again,” I said, and pressed the button. The machine beeped.

  “October, this is Pete.” My manager sounded deeply unhappy to be talking to my answering machine. Considering how difficult it was to get decent help on the night shift, I couldn’t blame him.

  “Oh, crap,” I said, leaning against the wall. I knew what came next. I’d been hearing it a lot since I got out of the pond.

  “I covered for you as best I could, but you’ve been a no-call, no-show for two nights now. I’m afraid we’re going to have to let you go. Your last paycheck will be mailed to the address we have on file.” He hesitated, adding, “Whatever this is… I just hope you’re all right.”

  The message ended.

  “Gunshot wounds, iron poisoning, missing cats, dead friend, and now I need to find a new job,” I muttered, pushing away from the wall and swallowing my relief at the fact that it hadn’t been something worse. No one else was dead. After the things that had been happening lately, that was a mercy in and of itself. “Damn it, Evening. Couldn’t you have found yourself a flunky who didn’t have to pay the rent?”

  I walked into the living room, wincing when I saw the gun on the coffee table. Someone was really trying to have me killed, and the gun in my living room suddenly looked like a symbol of the entire damn mess. I kicked the coffee table with my good leg, sending the gun sliding across the floor to vanish behind the curtains.

  “Screw you, Evening!” I shouted. “Screw your duty and your dying and… and your going off and leaving me to deal with this alone!” I stopped, fury spent as quickly as it had come. It wasn’t doing anyone any good. Not even me.

  The silence that followed my outburst was followed by a familiar, if muffled sound: Siamese voices, raised in angry protest at their mistreatment by the world. “Girls?” The yowls led me to the front door. I opened it, and the cats came racing inside, ears flat against their heads, eyes wide and wild. I stared at them. “Jeez, girls. Were you out there all night? You know there’s a reason you’re not allowed to go outside!”

  Cagney looked up at me, ears still flat, and yowled again. I sighed. “Right. You got out when Devin brought me inside.” Lacey added her voice to the choir, both of them beginning to twine around my ankles. I don’t normally mind them being friendly. I also don’t normally have a hole in my thigh and a case of iron poisoning threatening to dump me on my ass. “Yes, I know,” I said, stepping over them on my way to the kitchen. “You nearly froze to death out there, you haven’t been fed since the fall of Rome, and I’m evil. How about you let me get to the kitchen without breaking my neck?”

  The cats seemed unimpressed by this offer and complained all the way into the kitchen, stopping only after their bowl was full of mashed-up artificial fish. The last of Devin’s yellow gunk was caked on the inside of my coffeepot. I scraped it thickly into my mug and shoved the mug into the microwave, asking, “You two need anything else?” The cats didn’t answer.

  I rinsed the coffeepot and filled it with water, studying my reflection in the toaster. I looked like hell. My skin was pale, the skin around my eyes looked bruised, my neck was livid with scrapes and bruises from its encounter with the seat belt, and somehow I still looked better than I had the night before. Sleep and a hefty dose of several healing potions will do that for a girl.

  Sleep, healing potions, and a little company. I half smiled as I filled the coffee machine, setting it to percolate. Maybe it was wrong of me to go looking for a silver lining in the current stupid mess, but if there was one, it was in the bridges I was starting to rebuild. Sylvester had missed me. Shadowed Hills was willing to welcome me. And Devin…

  I touched the side of my neck, remembering the touch of Devin’s lips. Devin still cared. In his own screwed-up way, he’d never stopped.

  The ding of the microwave snapped me back to the present. Withdrawing the mug, I sipped the gingerbread-scented goo and waited for the coffee to finish. The iron in my blood still had me weak and befuddled, but time and not getting myself killed would take care of that. In the meantime, at least the stuff Devin had left me was helping to keep me on my feet.

  The taste of roses tried to rise in my throat, seeming thinner and weaker than before. I wasn’t the only one being slowed down by the iron poisoning. I shoved it down as hard as I could and took another large gulp of Devin’s gingerbread slime before topping off my mug with coffee. No matter how much I wanted to stand around and dwell on things, the fact remained that I was on a very real deadline, and the trail to Evening’s killers was having more and more time to get cold.

  The gingerbread slime was substantially easier to stomach when mixed with coffee. I topped the mug off again, adding six spoonfuls of sugar before heading for the hall. The day looked pretty simple, really. I’d call Sylvester and let him know that I was still alive. Then, when Devin’s kids showed up, I’d head for Home, and I’d tell him everything. The hope chest, the key, the curse Evening slapped on me before she died, everything. He had the pieces I was missing about the way things had changed in the years I missed, and between the two of us, we might just have enough to end this whole damn mess.

  The mixture of coffee and healing potion was sweet and sharp on my tongue, and it tasted like surviving to see tomorrow. I was reaching for the telephone when the doorbell rang.

  I tensed, turning to stare at the door before slowly, grudgingly relaxing. Devin told me he’d be sending his kids in the morning. It was past noon; I should’ve been expecting t
hem. Tightening the knot on my robe, I walked over and opened the door.

  Gillian was standing on the doorstep.

  I hadn’t seen my little girl up close since she was two years old. She was just a shape through a telephoto lens, a figure that I took clandestine pictures of whenever I got to really feeling sorry for myself and used my old job skills to catch up with the daughter I’d lost. That didn’t matter. There are some people you know no matter how far apart you are.

  She was taller than I was—just by a few inches, but still—with the coltish build of a girl who wasn’t quite done growing. She had her father’s thick, dark hair, with the slight curl I’d always loved, and his Italian complexion. Even her eyes were his. She didn’t look a thing like me, and I loved her all the more for that.

  I must have made some sound of surprise, because she looked up and smiled. I would have given everything I had, and more, for that smile.

  “Gilly?” I whispered.

  Her smile grew. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Gilly,” I repeated, like I was trying to convince myself. “You’re here.”

  “I hope you don’t mind?” She bit her lip, smile dying as quickly as it came. “I got your address off one of the letters you sent to Dad. I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind if I stopped by for a little while. Just to say Merry Christmas, and everything.”

  “Mind? Why would I—no! I mean, no, I don’t mind a bit. You can stay just as long as you want.” The words were coming too fast, getting tangled around each other. I forced myself to slow down. “I mean, of course. Please, come in. Come in.”

  Still smiling, she stepped past me into the living room. I closed the door, wanting to scream and laugh and cry and jump around. I settled for folding my hands behind my back, watching her avidly.

  Gilly looked around the room, and frowned. “Mom? Are you okay?”

  “What?” I followed her gaze to the couch and winced as I saw the mud and blood caked on the cushions. “Oh, that. Yeah, Gilly, I’m fine. I just got a little bit banged up at work and haven’t had a chance to call the dry cleaner, that’s all.” I hesitated. “Is it still Gilly? I mean, you’re a lot older now. Do you like Gillian better?”